stop and stare
by newsbians
Summary: The loser must keep living after the summer of '58. Living and breathing the air that was stolen from the victims of that horrible monster.


_This town is colder now, I think it's sick of us_

_It's time to make our move, I'm shakin' off the rust_

There were whispers now. Whispers that Eddie just couldn't seem to shake.

As he walked through the pharmacy aisles, searching for the bandaids with the little prong things on the end that wouldn't fall off when he moved his elbows, he heard the first whispers. "That little Kaspbrak boy. Over there. So tragic, what he did to his mother." Eddie's back stiffened at the other woman's titters as the pair of old ladies walked away from the cough syrups. Not even knowing who they were, he glared at their backs until they strolled into the next aisle. Swiping whatever bandages were in front of him and stowing them in his front pocket, Eddie stormed out of the store and into the alley behind it.

Bill's expectant gaze met him first as he held out his hand. Eddie put the box of gauze down and stood near the wall, almost leaning, but not willing to risk the germ exposure. Everyone watched with bated breath as Bill's steady hands cleaned out the gash in Mike's arm and began dressing the wound. His strong hiss of pain made Eddie jump and cover his eyes, making him feel four years old again. He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, covering his face from the scene and murmuring _It'll be okay, Eds. He'll be okay._ Not having the willpower to correct the boy on the juvenile nickname, Eddie relaxed slightly into Richie's chest and tried not to wince at the wimpers coming from Mike.

Henry Bowers might've been gone, but that did not mean there were other gruesome bullies waiting anxiously to take his place. Bullies who were just as mean (because when there wasn't a maniac clown to deal with, there were tenth graders) and just as vicious (because Derry was cruel that way) and just as armed. This time it meant waiting for Mike on the path he always took into town with a barrage of insults and a serrated blade. When he retold the tale later, clutching his bleeding arm and staining his work boots, Mike said that they called him names that even Mike wasn't really allowed to say, that they had heard he was one of the crazy kids who claimed they were attacked by a demon. _If you want something to be scared of, boy, we'll give it to you. Ain't no monster under your bed._ They had whispered it, right before slashing his arm wide open.

That was the latest town gossip, and the whispers that seemed to invade every moment of Eddie's waking life. A group of seven kids emerged from the decaying house on Neibolt street, bloody yet victorious, when eight had entered. They would tell anyone who would listen that they fought off a killer clown, the same that had killed Betty Ripsom and ripped off Georgie's arm and left him for dead. Instead of believing the children, everyone made snide remarks about the poor Bowers, both father and son dying under mysterious and inexplicable circumstances. Of course, the initial blame was handed directly to the Loser's Club, but as the investigation went on they found that the blood on their clothes belonged only to each other and the fingerprints on the knife used to kill Detective Bowers didn't have a match. They still spent a night in jail. One cold, dark night with only one another to keep warm.

So no, it wasn't a surprise when Mike came staggering up to the Aladdin, where they had all planned to meet. Each of them had been attacked at different times, some getting it worse than others, (people liked to pick on the color of Mike's skin, the way Eddie blushed when he walked into the boy's locker room, Ben's size. The list could go on.) and every time, they banded together and stood as a united front. There would always be a small voice in the back of their minds, however. The same that played in Eddie's as he clung to Richie, trying to be strong for Mike's sake. _Maybe this town is as sick of us as we are of them._

_I've got my heart set on anywhere but here_

_I'm staring down myself, counting up the years_

Richie began making the plans absentmindedly, mostly as a way of escape during boring classes and sleepless nights. As soon as he turned eighteen, he would turn on his heels and run from Derry, run from all of the monsters who lived here, run from the clown and his parents and everyone who had ever called him useless. He didn't quite know where he would run to, but the maps in his mind always led somewhere bright, where it didn't rain quite as often and he could wear his shorts during the winter time.

At sixteen, he realized that his daydreams could all be tracked with some scraps of paper, red yarn, and a bulletin board, so he began doing exactly that. Behind a poster on his wall, Richie began sketching out the Great American Roadtrip (Richie Tozier Edition). First, he would work on making sure the truck he had inherited was reliable enough to drive across the country.

He began working part time in the town's auto shop, picking up spare pieces wherever he could and making some half-hearted tips. The only reason Mr. Kurtz, the head mechanic, had hired the boy was that for the most part, he lived oblivious to any town gossip. All of Richie's coworkers avoided him like the plague and tried to whisper warnings to Kurtz when he first began the job. Staring curiously at the gangly boy who kept his head down and did all of his work in a prompt fashion, the man waved all of the rumors away. "Leave the boy be," he'd respond. "Ain't nothing wrong with a tale to tell."

With a decent engine and enough money to make it wherever he was planning on going, Richie began looking for work that he could do while he was out there. He wasn't half bad at the whole mechanic thing, and once he was nearing eighteen he began to consider it very seriously. Richie, ever the trashmouth, could still make whole crowds hysterical with a well-timed joke and a fake voice or two, but he didn't dare tell anyone that he almost wished he could do that for a living. Maybe that was why he finally settled on Los Angeles, a place that people would speak of in hushed voices and stars in their eyes. It was seemingly perfect, except for one minor detail.

It was dirty. Not that that bothered Richie, of course, he once had a record of not showering for three weeks and two days. No, this would bother someone else, someone who had always been in the back of his mind, someone who Richie just couldn't imagine living without so he put him on this metaphorical trip, right alongside him. Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier had done everything together since the beginning of time, and now Richie was going to ask him to do one more thing that would change their life completely. So Richie set off to do the final thing on his checklist: Ask Eddie to throw his entire life away and be reckless, for the first time in his tiny, asthmatic life.

The knock on the Kaspbrak's door seemed too loud, too forceful, and he winced when Sonya, Eddie's evil hag of a mother, answered the door. "Hey-y-y-y, Mrs. K. Eddie 'round?" Her frown was enough to tell him exactly where Eddie was (down at the Barrens) and how she felt about it. (She hated it.) "See ya later Sonya!" Richie shouted as he turned and began running in the right direction. Her grumbling was lost on deaf ears as he could only hear the wind whistling through his hair and the sun beating down.

By the time he arrived, Richie was sweaty and completely out of breath. He wasn't sure why he had run, maybe it was just the feeling in his chest that if he didn't ask Eddie _right now_ he'd explode. So when he saw Eddie peacefully reading a book on top of a blanket and slathered in sunscreen, Richie also couldn't explain the way his heart fell into his feet.

"Richie?" Eddie called, book sliding to the floor. He smiled so warmly at Richie that he had to remind himself to move his feet, lift them off the ground, one by one.

He settled on the ground next to him. "Hey Eds. I've got somethi-"

"Don't call me Eds."

The sentence that Eddie had said before, maybe a thousand times over, made Richie's throat ache with familiarity. Suddenly he felt twelve again, with glasses too big for his face and feelings that he would never be allowed to talk about with anyone. "Eds. Please listen to me." Eddie made a displeased noise, but leaned his chin in his hands and gazed up at Richie with wide, expectant eyes. "I've been thinking," He began, nervously pushing at the bridge of his glasses. "That I can't stay here. Derry, I mean. There's just too much shit to remember and now that we're older and everyone still manages to hate us- and I hate them, I think. I don't wanna ever spend another moment here if I don't have to. So uh, I'm leaving. Four days, to be exact."

Eddie's eyes kept widening, kept growing at a pace that was almost worrisome. "Four days?" He whispered. "Four days and you _leave me?_ How could you, Rich! We swore we would never-"

"I want you to come with me." Richie cut his rambling off.

"No. Absolutely not." Eddie said it with an air of finality that made Richie almost unwilling to fight back.

"Eds…" He almost whispered.

They were so close, their noses only inches apart and staggered breathing intertwining. Eddie turned away suddenly, looking at a spot that was somewhere over the creek. "Don't call me Eds. I'm not moving away with you, Tozier. My whole life is here. My college is here. My mom is here. It's selfish of you to even think I'd go."

He felt his heart splinter into a million pieces. "Okay." Richie said dumbly. "Thank you for giving me my answer." Eddie's sniff filled the air, and Richie realized he wasn't the only one on the brink of tears. "Eddie?" The smaller boy's head turned slightly, still not making full eye contact. "Please tell me one more thing. Did you ever… did you ever-" He cut himself off before he let his trashmouth be the death of him again. The insinuation was enough. Eddie understood.

It was a bold move, but one Richie had to make before he left for good.

Eddie's eyes swept over the creek one last time as a perfect tear rolled down his cheek. "No," he whispered softly. "I don't think I did."

Richie left four days early on the Great American Roadtrip (Richie Tozier Edition). He was set on anywhere but here, but he left his heart in a diddly little town in Maine, on a creekbed.

_Steady hands just take the wheel_

_Every glance is killing me_

His knuckles were turning white with force as he gripped the leather steering wheel, trying desperately not to crash the car. The nerves of driving back into his hometown were practically choking him, ghosts of the past reaching down into his throat and cutting off all circulation until he had to pull over to the side of the road. Gulps of air came flooding in as Ben stared at his surroundings.

It was a bright, sunny day, unusual for the middle of April, and he was parked right underneath a cheery sign that read Welcome to Derry! The irony was enough to make him laugh, but it escaped as more of a wheeze, and Ben hit his head on the steering wheel. Truth be told, he really couldn't pinpoint the reason he was so nervous to be back in Derry. Life was halfway terrible when he was a kid, but that was because of childhood bullies that would sneer awful remarks at him on the playground. Surely they had all grown up, right? No one would call him _fatso_ or _loser_ when he walked past the shops in town, even though the storekeepers were the same as his middle school tormentors. Ben knew that he could walk through town and name the baker, the town drunk, the new ninth grade science teacher, because no one left Derry. No one left, no one came.

Benjamin Hanscom was what most would call an anomaly, because he got to escape the fate of a childhood growing up in Derry. Ben, a beautiful redhead named Beverly, (_January embers,_ Ben thought in the back of his mind. _What did that mean?_) and someone he could only remember as Richie the Trashmouth. These were the kids who actually made it out of the small town. There was a postcard tucked under his bed in a box of junk addressed to a house in Connecticut. Ben had moved there was he was fifteen, four years after- Ben couldn't quite remember what that was after. Four years after something important happened. Something that made receiving the postcard fill his stomach with dread.

_December 12th, 1965_

_Ben! We've missed you! Wish you would write more, Stan thinks you're pulling a Bev on us and never looking back. I told him that you'd never forget about your old panty waists back in Derry. Stan says hi, by the way. _Yes. Hello Ben. Miss you. _So do Eddie and Mike. And that's what I'm writing to you about! Guess who made it out! The trashmouth himself! Richie upped and left for California two days ago without telling any of us. For some reason I can't find it in me to be mad at him because I'm so damn proud he made it out. Eddie's real bummed though. Only speaks when he needs to and always leaves early. But it's fine though. Richie's like you and Bev, he'll really make it now! Maybe he'll go the rest of his life without seeing It. Sorry, not a funny joke. Stan's laughing a little bit, though. And that means it was probably not a great joke. We miss you, Ben. Please try to write. We sent you some stuff to inspire your inevitable poems of your life and times here in the shithole. _

_Losers forever, _

_Bill Denbrough_

Ben pulled the box from his backseat now, the strange urge that had him bring it with him now telling him to rifle through. A small, leather bound notebook with the title Derry's Unofficial History by Mike Hanlon. There was nothing else written, just an ominous page written by a boy he didn't remember. A green bouncy ball. Handful of arcade tokens. A bridge built with toothpicks. One bottle cap off of a cheap brand of vodka. Shoelaces tied into a noose. A book of town history. Finally, another postcard, splattered in something red, smelled vaguely cherry-like, and written in handwriting Ben would never be able to recognize.

_Your hair is winter fire. _

_January embers, _

_My heart burns there too. _

_(Really takes ya back, huh Ben?) _

Back to what, though? Ben had read this poem a million times over and still, nothing ever rang a bell. It was like having a kernel of popcorn stuck in your gums or a phantom rock in your shoe. Always in the back of his mind and never seeing the light of day.

Giving the poem one last glance and then tossing the box to the side, Ben slowly started the car again. He drove past the sign and into the main center of town, just a row of damp store fronts with sad, dull signs advertising the different sales. All of a sudden Ben couldn't quite remember what he was here to accomplish, why he had left his comfortable life to visit the place he grew up. Nostalgia wasn't the answer since there was nothing to reminisce about, just a handful of vague emotions that left him feeling uneasy.

Thinking he should just turn around and go home, Ben began to pull a U-turn when he saw a man standing on the corner of the street. He had a vendors cart with him, but there was no description as to what he was selling, just a bunch of red balloons tied to the handle. Ben couldn't quite see his face since the balloons swaying in the nonexistent breeze covered him up. As he turned around and drove back up the street, he glanced in his rearview mirror once more. The balloons were gone. The man locked eyes with Ben and leered, for just a second, long enough to make his blood run cold. His smile was terribly wide, lips stretching over his teeth in an inhumane way and pulling the flesh to be shiny and tight. Black holes stood where eyes normally did. Big orange puff balls suddenly decorated the man's apron. When Ben whipped around in his seat to get a better look, there was nothing left. Just a single red balloon, floating up, up, up.

_Time to make one last appeal_

_For the life I live_

No one said a single word. If they even tried, Stan shut them down. "Shut up." He'd say, even if Richie began _thinking_ of a joke. There was no room for laughter in a holding cell.

They had been arrested and Stan was trying to figure out a way of telling his father without being murdered before he was bar mitzvah-ed. Well, more murdered than the crazy fucking killer clown had tried to accomplish before Richie clobbered him over the head with a baseball bat and they all just started screaming and throwing things and at some point Stan definitley ran him through with an iron rod. But that was nothing compared to Mr. Uris and a good reason to yell. No, the true horror awaited him when he got home tonight. He could already see his mustache trembling with anger, the red creeping up the sides of his neck.

Stan took a deep breath and clenched his fists, feeling the crescent of his nails bite into the soft skin on his palms. This was momentary distraction from the monster headache he currently had, courtesy of the painting lady. A shudder ran through him as he thought about the woman who wasn't truly a woman, just an evil twist of a face that had skittered at him, like a cockroach.

"_Guys?" He called out, the panic settling in. "Guys, where'd you go?" No response. The quiet hung in the air, heavy, only penetrated by random drops of water. Stan swept the flashlight around, trying to figure out which pothole he had just emerged from, when a piercing giggle erupted out of nowhere. "Hello?!" His voice more frantic, more desperate for Richie to just be fucking with him in a bad moment, for Bev to start breaking out in her normal peals of laughter and reveal that she had been okay this whole time. The laughter was more of an echo this time, sending chills down his spine. It was an echo… but it was closer. Closer. Closer. _

Behind him!

_Like the sound of his mother's drumming nails when she was irritated with him, the lady in the painting flew at him. Stan jerked backward only to hit the wall, knocking the wind out of him, rendering him useless for a second. That was all she needed. Her smile widened as rows of teeth, dank and dripping with gray water, flashed in the quickly dimming beam of his flashlight. He screamed, screamed with terror and hope that Bill would come flying out to save the day, but her jaws stretched and suddenly he could only feel unimaginable pain. Her teeth bit into his skin and he had given up screaming, and now was writhing around, which made her clench down harder on the sides of his face. Stan was giving into the darkness that crept into the sides of his vision when a loud clang rang through the sewers and he heard a bewildered "What the fuck _is _that thing?" _

_The woman leeched off into the darkness before Stan could register what had happened, and suddenly there was a crowd of people surrounding him. _Stan! Stan, are you okay? Stan please say something! S-S-S-Stan! _Stan's eyes flew open at the sound of Bill's voice and he immediately began screaming again. "You left me!" He scrambled backward and hit the wall again. "You all left me and you swore you wouldn't!" Hot tears ran into the wounds, causing them to sting. When did he start crying? Still pushing back at them, accusing them of things beyond their control, Stan began growing hysterical. "You left me! You left me! You_

've left me no choice, laddies." Mr. Nell said, causing Stan to jump back into the present. "I hafta call your parents ta come getcha in the mornin'." Nobody but Richie was bold enough to groan at this statement, and he only did after the policeman was out of sight. Stan knew he was in for it once he got home. He might've almost died three hours ago, but he was definitely never going to see his twelfth birthday.

Leaning his head against the wall, Stan tried to close his eyes and ignore the pounding in his head. Some shuffling noises were made as Eddie curled into Richie, buried himself in the fabric of his t-shirt and Richie threw an arm around the smaller boy. Beverly made no noise while tipping her head onto Ben's shoulder and squeezing Mike's arm, and both boys smiled softly in response. For a moment, Bill stayed completely still, but then reached for Stan's hand. Stan jerked his eyes back open to only find Bill staring at him with the inevitable question in his eyes- _Are you okay?_ Lacing their fingers together and squeezing hard, Stan closed his eyes again.

In the morning he wasn't only berated for coming out of the Neibolt street house half alive, but also that the Uris couple found their son lying cheek to cheek with that no-good Denbrough boy, fast asleep with their limbs entangled together. He got an earful, but Stanley didn't mind much. He felt much braver than he ever had before.

_Stop and stare_

_I think I'm moving but I go nowhere_

Beverly Marsh was almost fourteen years old and she was trying desperately to remember the name of the boy with bug-eyed glasses. It began as a joke she was trying to tell to Ella, another freshman who kept her head down and avoided the popular girls at all costs. "Tangled up there, lass?" Beverly had remarked when Ella came out of the bathroom stall with her skirt caught in her underwear. The girl laughed and asked what accent that was supposed to be, and Beverly began to answer when she caught herself short. "Well… it's called the Scottish Cop." She said slowly. "This boy… he used to do it all the time… even straight to a policeman's face." Ella then laughed once more and led them both out of the bathroom, a place they never willingly spent more time if they didn't have to. (Another feeling Beverly couldn't quite place- restrooms made her nervous. Like she was helpless.)

Spending the rest of the school day thinking it over, she still didn't have a name when she pulled her bike up to her aunt's back door. A quick hello and a dash up the stairs led Beverly onto the floor of her bedroom, thinking about her life in Derry.

She was born in Derry, Maine. Raised in a house with light blue shutters and a broken living room window. Inside lived Beverly and Al Marsh, a sweet child with cherub cheeks and a father who liked to beat his daughter senseless whenever he had the opportunity. Al had died in that house too, but from what? A lot of dying was happening, Beverly could remember that much. That's why she was sent to Portland. Her father… but who else? Who else had died- _G-G-Georgie_. Georgie Denbrough. Little brother of Big Bill Denbrough, a tall boy who had a stutter but also a sweet dimple and layers of freckles that Beverly suddenly remembered being incredibly charmed by. Bill was the leader of the ragtag group of kids that followed him around on his heels and took heed of every word he stuttered out, and Beverly was no different. Like a puppy and it's owner, Beverly saw stars when she looked at Bill.

That was a long time ago. She was tougher now, she didn't let any boys tell her what to do or when to do it. Not that the boys she had loved back in Derry were mean, they were just in charge. Beverly was the captain of her own destiny now.

However, there were days when a sickly feeling would crawl up the back of her neck and make her turn around fast, for one second, to find nothing but a breeze behind her. There were days when walking into a bathroom meant going straight to the toilet to throw up, because the sight of white-tiled walls made her inexplicably nauseous. There were days when she would cross to the other side of the street to avoid a storm drain with an open grate. There were days when Beverly Marsh did not feel in control at all, and she wished that Bill Denbrough was there to tell her what to do.

He was back in Derry, however, and sent her postcards every once and awhile to remind her. They were never waxing letters of love and longing, (although she had one of those too, but it stayed in the back of her closet and in the back of her mind) but instead cheerful reminders to write to her old pals back in Derry. She had tried once, but after crying in frustration when she couldn't figure out the name of the place they used to spend all of their time, that dusty forest with the great big cliff drop off, the letter went into her wastepaper basket. Beverly now kept the postcards in a plastic pencil case box at the top of her closet.

They now sat scattered around her as she tried to figure out the kid's name. Bill's letters mentioned Stan the Man, Trashmouth, Eddie, Benny Boy, and Mike, but Beverly couldn't decipher the differences between all of them. It was like they were characters in a book she had read long ago, all blending together to make a ball of personality- Someone hated taking their shirt off when they swam, another kept an inhaler glued to his hand, one worked on a farm and brought them all apples when the season was right. Bill was the only one that stood out in her mind, but that was because he had always stood out. He was first the boy with the dead brother. He then became the leader of the group. Bill never wore glasses, though, this much she could remember.

Giving up after a last ditch skim through the letters, Beverly lied down on her bed and curled up into a ball. Perhaps it was for the better that she couldn't quite remember Derry. After all, she had left her father there, and that was definitely for good.

In the morning, Beverly had forgotten all about the conundrum of the boy with the bug-eyed glasses and ate her toast and jam in complete peace. After kissing her aunt on the cheek and grabbing her brown bagged lunch, she mounted her bike (an old, rickety thing that glinted in the sun and caused her aunt to worry when she made a sharp turn around the corner of the neighborhood) and lifted her fist in the air, crowing with triumph, "Heigh ho, Silver away!"

_Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared_

_But I've become what I can't be_

He dropped to the floor, clutching his ears and trembling. The bang of the gun was too much for him to handle, even though it had been ten years since he had a reason to actually fear it. Staring the sheep right in the eyes to mirror the eye contact Henry had held with him before attempting to blow his brains out was a bitter pill for Mike to swallow.

One he often choked on.

The farmhand, a younger boy named Thomas, tried to hide the sigh that escaped as Mike took a deep breath, calming the tremors that ran through his body. He didn't chastise him for the disrespect, because he knew he would've done the same thing if he was fifteen and working for a crazy man. "Do you mind finishing up here?" Mike asked. The boy nodded and picked up the abandoned gun, hanging it off of the shelf and slung the sheep around his shoulders. Mike's stomach turned with the sight of blood dripping from it's head, the one he had just put a bullet through, and pushed through the barn doors.

Dropping to his knees and taking in deep gulps of breath, Mike let the heat of the sun beat down on his back. The memories of that day were too vivid in his mind. Things were never truly the same afterwards, he knew it, the Losers Club knew it, even his parents understood that there was a change in their boy. He was no longer the delicate yet strong boy they had raised. He no longer wanted to explore all of the unbeaten paths of Derry. Mike had lost the spark of curiosity that made so many people love him. Each member of the club had reached a level of adulthood that no eleven year old should be able to understand.

They handled it in their own ways. Beverly, for starters, moved away. Completely. It wasn't really her choice, but she wasn't arguing. She had told them all once, in a hushed voice at one of Bill Denbrough's sleepovers, that she heard noises in her house still. Dripping water pipes. Child-like whispers. Faint circus music. Beverly Marsh left Derry with a skip in her step and a promise to write them all at least once a month with a review of the latest horror movie in theaters. (They never heard from her again. Bill kept sending letters, however. They would gather around and write it together, jutting in with their own handwriting and stories of things they thought she would like. Mike always wrote lengthy descriptions of the butterfly migrations. Bill would sign each one with Losers Forever.)

Bill began to write. He was always good at english and he came up with the best lies to get them out of scrapes, but this was something different. Pages and pages of horror stories began surfacing, dropped off at their doors with varying notes. ("_Is this something to actually be scared of?" "Can you check my grammar?"_ Mike was always asked to see if the story was historically accurate, to see if pilgrims would've been in Utah during November, 1650, or something of that nature.) The group never acknowledged it, but the stories became increasingly real, increasingly familiar, until they just had a specific recount of the day at the Neibolt house and they all gathered together and cried, as thirteen year olds are wont to do.

As if nothing ever happened, Stanley Uris would refuse to talk about anything that had occurred. He began spending less time with the group as well, and they all hated to see the strained look on Bill's face when any of them questioned where Stan was. Sometimes they saw him riding his bike around town, or birdwatching in the park, and none of them really said anything about it. Stan was affected in a different way that day, because he had to face the monster alone. When they made a promise to come back and fight if It ever resurfaced, Stan's hand shook when he held out the broken coke bottle. He was with them until he wasn't.

Richie and Eddie became RichieandEddie and no one was brave enough to bring it up. Not brave, there was no bravery in that sort of confrontation, but no one was willing to take away something that made them happy. They each had their thing, and they happened to be each others. So if cuddling so tightly you couldn't distinguish who was who during movies nights, Richie comforting Eddie alone during his panic attacks, them spending more time together than with the Losers made them happy, what else could they do except stand there and think _Thank God we are safe and we have one another?_

Ben and Mike began spending more time together as well. They both migrated toward the library and found solace in the quiet stacks of books, arming themselves with knowledge and words instead of weapons and fire. It began subconsciously, showing up at the same time because they had wordlessly made a schedule, sharing a table and putting each other's books away as a favor. Then one day Mike wasn't there because of some chores and Ben called his house breathlessly wondering if Mike was okay and if he could speak to him, please? Suddenly showing up was a lot more purposeful now, Ben bringing two sleeves of Necco Wafers, Mike having enough paper for both of them to take notes. Library days became Mike's favorite because he knew that he wouldn't have to face the world for a while, and he had a great pal beside him.

This is where Mike found himself drifting to, ten years later. Benjamin Hanscom had left Derry when they were fifteen years old, but Mike still loved the library and the peace it brought him. The rattle of his beat-up Ford slowed to a stop outside of the Derry City Library and Mike suddenly didn't feel as nauseous as he once did. Greeting the librarian with a quick smile, he took his spot at the table he had occupied for so many years and cracked open whatever book was lying on the end. A tale of princesses and knights in shining armor.

The lazy afternoon light filtered in as time went on, and Mike looked up. The clock on the wall told him it was definitely time for him to head home. As he put the book back, something etched into the surface of the table caught his eye. Result of a day where Ben and Mike tried to convince the others to meet at the library, Richie had taken out his pen knife and carved LOSERS FOREVER BITCH into their sacred reading table. Ben had almost cried when he saw it and Mike threatened to punch him before Bill had stepped in and calmed everyone down. Mike knew that it was Eddie who had snuck back in and scratched out the 'BITCH,' risking the chance that he would be teased mercilessly. He grazed the carving lightly, remembering fondly of the moments where he felt invincible standing next to the rest of his friends. He felt a surge of protection even seeing it, feeling guarded by the ghosts of the Losers Club. And by God, isn't that what Mike wanted? To feel safe again, even if for one day?

_Stop and stare_

_You start to wonder why you're here not there_

The top button of his shirt was making his neck itch something fierce. He wasn't quite sure why he had to wear it so tightly around his neck, but the striped tie he also had held it up fastidiously. The itch, in the end, did not matter. Because when you're attending your little brother's funeral, trivial things like the top button of your shirt seemed to be important for only seconds at a time.

Technically, the funeral had already passed. Bill had spent the morning in the local church, holding his mother's hand as she cried. He had been strangely stoic for a just-turned eleven year old boy, but maybe it was to show his father that he was a man, that he was strong enough to be his son. It didn't matter. Zach and Sharon Denbrough cried through the entire service, and their adventurous _(alive) _son sat between them, unblinking. On the way home Sharon accidentally caught Bill's eye in the mirror and for the first time in his young life, she did not smile back.

Bill's top button was itching him as he sat in the middle of the upstairs hallway listening to the people that were gathered downstairs. A low murmur crept up from the crowd, people apologizing to his parents while trying to mask their secret relief that it wasn't their own child's funeral and eating crudites. For a while Bill had stood with them, but he got antsy and his dad tapped him on the back, relieving him of the duty. Not really sure where he wanted to be, _(not his room because he could see Georgie's bed and Georgie's toys and Georgie's things but there wasn't a Georgie anymore)_ Bill slid down the wall and hid from the rest of the people.

He untied the tie around his neck with clumsy fingers, just pulling at the knot until it came loose, and then unbuttoned the itchy culprit of a top button. Just as he sighed with relief, pairs of footsteps came bounding up the stairs and almost stepped right on top of him. "Hole-lee shit!" Richie exclaimed. "I faouwnd 'im, boys!" For an inexplicable reason, hearing Richie's terrible Cowboy Joe voice relaxed Bill just a bit more, and looking into the eyes of his best friends made him release all of the tension in his small, eleven year old shoulders.

Eddie and Stan looked impeccable, as if anything else was to be expected of them. Both in little suit jackets that were broken out for special occasions, like Sabbath when Stan's Bubbe came to dinner or Christmas when Eddie was dragged by the ear to church for an incredibly boring amount of time. Richie was in a clean pair of jeans and a button-up, since his parents did not believe in buying such an expensive item of clothing for a growing boy. The trio looked very nice, but they also looked out of place, as if their very faces told the story that they should not be dressed in their nicest clothes on a Thursday afternoon. The slump in their shoulders and pity in their eyes said _I should be playing in the sunshine, not mourning the loss of my best friend's little brother_. However, there they stood. At the feet of the boy with the dead brother.

"H-H-Hey guys." Bill said quietly, smiling half-heartedly up at them. They all crowded down with him and wordlessly wrapped their arms around each other, making Bill the center of their small universe. He said nothing, just let them pat him slightly and make comforting noises for a second before slinging an arm around Stan. A small sniffle escaped from him, and the boys all let go for a second. They settled in the middle of the hallway, a tight circle with their knees overlapping each other. Eddie was wrapped up in Richie's side, and Bill didn't let go of Stan.

They still sat in silence and watched Bill fight back tears, tears that he wasn't allowed to shed in front of his father, tears that he would probably get made fun of by Richie for later, but tears that suddenly spilled over when Stan carefully bumped his forehead against Bill's. The small act of sincerity reminded Bill that he would never be able to feel Georgie's small hand grasp for his when they were crossing the street, and now he was a blubbering mess. He didn't dare try to say anything because he knew his stuttering would be terrible, but the other boys seemed to understand everything he was feeling. So Bill just cried, and his best friends held him while he did.

Later, Bill sat on his bed, his feet dangling off of the edge, staring at his closed door. Eddie was brushing his teeth, Richie looking through his meager record collection, and Stan sat next to him, reading from a book about birds. "Hoopoe is a national bird of Israel and one of the birds that were considered sacred in-"

"I-I-I-I wis-sh-sh it had b-b-been me." Bill cut Stan off. The soft slap of a record hitting the floor came from Richie. "H-He d-d-d-didn't deserve t-to d-d-die. Sh-Sh-Should've b-b-been m-m-m-me." The Big Book of Birds closed with a thump. "I s-s-sent hi-him out th-th-there with-thout anyo-o-ne." Stan reached for his hand, but Bill drew it away with a suddenness that made Stan jump. "D-D-Don't p-p-pity me. I-I-it's t-t-true, and I-I-I c-c-can't take it b-b-back."

Bill jumped off the bed and flung open his bedroom door. He stared at Georgie's bed with a hard look in his eye and then made the decision that he would never close the door again, because he deserved to be reminded of the thing he had done, and he wanted to make things fair. Georgie had died because of him and Bill was going to make himself pay.

_And you'd give anything to get what's fair_

_But fair ain't what you really need_

_This isn't fucking fair,_ Bill thought. _My friends are going to die because of me, and that just isn't fair._ The clown had him by the throat, his breath hot and rancid and making Bill feel slightly dizzy. "As I feed on your fear." It finished, giving that wide, maniacal grin. "Or." He tried turning his head to look at the thing, but it tightened its grip, the talons biting into his flesh. "You'll just leave us be. I'm taking him, only him. And then I'll have my long rest and you will all live to grow old and drive and lead happy lives until old age takes you back to the weeds."

Bill's shoulders fell with relief. His friends could live, really live, have long lives where they got to do more than build a dam in the Barrens or watch crappy horror movies all day long. All he had to do was convince them to leave. Their spouts of protest suggested otherwise, but he knew that they would go if he told them to. He was Big Bill after all. Always the one to make the decisions. "Leave," he commanded. The room went quiet for a moment, because that's what the world seemed to do when Bill Denbrough spoke. All of creation paused just to hear him speak. "I'm the one who dragged you all into this. Go!"

Like deer in headlights, his friends stared at him as they tried to make their decision. After a pregnant moment of silence, Richie took a step forward. "Sorry, Bill." He shook his head. "I told you, Bill. I fucking told you, I don't want to die…" Bill took a deep breath. Richie was going to lead them all out of the sewers, Richie was going to save their lives, Richie was going to leave him to die. And Bill wasn't even angry about it. "It's your fault. You punched me in the face, you made me walk through shitty water, you brought me to a fucking crackhead-house. And now… I'm gonna have to kill this fucking clown!" Before Bill could react, Richie swung his bat with the power of God himself. "Welcome to the Loser's Club, asshole!"

A flurry of pipes being thrown and children grabbing onto his back and Bill being released from it's terrible grasp then commenced. He immediately joined in on the fight and they all fought back, harder and harder until it took the form of a man none of them had seen before. Except Beverly.

The man had asked a question Bill did not understand, called her a name he had not heard before, when Beverly screamed a terrible and ugly scream and rammed an iron rod down his throat. They all watched as it flung itself down the larger sewer hole and stood together, beaten and bruised, but alive.

In the quiet, Bill came to a decision. Maybe his life wasn't fair. If it was fair, Georgie would be almost seven by now and starting the second grade. If it was fair, he would be able to sit with his parents and feel the love and light his home used to carry. If it was fair, Stan would look at him just like Beverly did. His life wasn't fair, but he tried his hardest to make it right. Bill fought for Georgie, for his parents, for his friends. Fair wasn't what he needed. Bill needed things to be just.


End file.
